December Prayer
by Searlait
Summary: In the first hours of new life, when one's whole world has changed, there is so much wonder and pain, so much hope and so much fear... A love letter from a young mother to her newborn child of winter.


**Happy birthday, Elsa.**

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><p>Such a blur, the last day and night; an impossible kaleidoscope of noise and movement and fear and pain, pain such as she had never known, had never dreamed a person could endure and live to tell of it. And yet – live she did. She lived, and breathed, and greeted those allowed in to see her with the expected courtesies, and wondered at her own experience. She had never considered herself a strong person. Truly, she had rarely considered herself at all; she had always been told what she was: daughter, princess, betrothed, wife, queen. Why risk thinking of – <em>wanting –<em> anything more?

But now, almost against her will, certainly against her better judgment, she felt strong, brave – _capable_. She had weathered the pain, she alone; no one could shoulder it for her or shelter her from it or tell her to look away, this was nothing for a young lady's gaze.

_Such a good girl_. She had relished the praise, basked in it, warm as summer sun. They patted her on the head, offered benevolent smiles, and sent her on her way. How could she have known she was capable of more? She had yet to reach the end of her second decade.

_Mother_. Of course it was what came next, regular as clockwork. Pain and blood and soothing voices, the midwife and her trembling apprentices; one of them had cold hands, another broad ruddy cheeks, but their names, if she had ever known them, were gone. She felt bad about that – they had been frightened, but they had helped. They had seen her safely delivered of child. She would ask their names, see that gifts were sent. It was almost Christmas, after all.

She had wondered if the baby would be born _on_ Christmas, but -

"The Winter Solstice, little one?"

She turned at the sound of the voice, melodic and familiar and lilting with gentle humor; she pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pain, letting the smile – nothing demure or controlled about it – spread across her face.

"In such a hurry you chose the shortest day of the year?"

She laughed; that twinged, too, through sore muscles, but she didn't mind. "She was very insistent it be today."

"Child of winter." Leaning over, smiling, a long finger stroking down the baby's downy cheek. "She looks like you. She'll be a beauty."

She blushed, pleased – not at the compliment to herself, but to the child. She hadn't realized babies were quite so monstrous at birth, sticky and red and squash-faced, but the midwife had not seemed concerned, so it must not have been startling. They had cleaned the baby before she held her, but no more than what seemed a few precious seconds had passed before whisking away again. She hadn't protested. She never did.

_Good girl_.

"You should sleep, little one. While she is."

She smiled. "It's strange – I'm not at all tired."

A smile in return, the older woman's eyes crinkling like parchment at the corners. "I remember the feeling well. And also my regret later." Her gaze casting downward once more. "Has he seen her yet?"

She shook her head. "Some of the men went out looking for him. He left when the pains began. He was... he was very nervous."

"For the best. Men have no place when a woman is in childbed."

She'd heard the sentiment expressed before, but still, she had missed him. He had helped her so, to get this far. Would he be pleased, though the child was a girl? She thought he would be. His warm hands had spread tentative and trembling across the swollen expanse of her middle, his eyes wide, his breath shallow, and he let his lips ghost across her skin...

Yes, she thought he would be pleased; pleased and proud. He was a good man, gentle and kind, and if he wanted a son, surely one would come, and until then – and evermore – he would love this little daughter, just as she did.

She hoped he got back soon. She wanted to show him – show him his firstborn child. She wanted him to be proud of her.

The older woman came to her side now, taking her hand. "They told me how brave you were. You did well."

She couldn't help it – she grinned like a child herself. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"If I see him, I'll send him in." A swift kiss to her cheek, leaving the faint scent of powder and rosewater, and the older woman was gone.

And then – silence. She looked to the window, where night was already, once more, taking reign. The shortest day of the year, the announcement not yet made, for when it was, the night, no matter the dark and the cold, would come alive with revelry, with raucous excitement, noise to wake even a heavy-lidded newborn from the depths of sleep. She would not know they celebrated her birth.

But for the moment, there was only this: this perfect, pristine silence. She could hear, soft as summer rain, the gentle breaths of a baby who had, mere hours before, drawn her first. She had read, as all children must do, stories of saints of monsters and magic, but never had the books held such a miracle as first breath. After, a noise – not a choked cry of cold and shock, but a soft "_cah_," almost a query, as if politely questioning the abrupt change in environment. Only when they began to clean her, washing away the mess of birth, did she begin to give off indignant howls. But even those had been brief, and she had remained quiet since, slipping off into easy sleep, refusing to wake even for the wet nurse. She, too, had had a long, difficult day.

Outside the window, the aurora was playing across the sky, vivid kites of green and blue. She had lived here for the better part of three years, but still, they might have been an unanticipated sorcerer's trick; at home, they had been no more than an occasional faded patchwork at twilight. Her child would grow up with a sky that blossomed like a meadow in spring. Would she appreciate the wonder? Surely, it would be impossible not to do so.

She took a deep breath, pushed herself to a sit, swung her legs over the side of the bed. It hurt, but she had endured worse – even today, there had been much, much worse. She stood up – slowly, carefully – and waited for the throbbing pain to ease, the dizziness to pass. She swallowed hard, wondering if she had used up the store of bravery and strength within herself.

She didn't think she had. She didn't.

She crossed the room in tiny, tentative steps, hugging the wall, running her hand along the paneling. The bassinet – small and ornate, rosewood and soft, warm coverings – was near the window. Near the lights of the aurora. She wanted the baby to see them. It was a sudden desire, but fierce, and there was none here to deny it to her, or argue with her foolishness.

But the baby still slept, and though she gazed down, gnawing her lower lip, for a long moment, she couldn't bring herself – yet – to disturb such peaceful slumber. Already, the baby looked... looked more like she supposed a baby _should_ look, smooth-skinned and pink-cheeked under the flickering lamps. Let her sleep. As long as she needed – let her sleep.

The lights outside weren't going anywhere, besides – this night would be a long one. She edged closer to the window, close enough to place one small hand against the glass, the chill creeping down her fingers. The winters here were so harsh, harsh and unforgiving. Could a newborn grow and thrive in such a place? Surely, _surely_ it could, babies must be born every winter, and the cold couldn't take them all, it couldn't possibly...

But the fear had her now, burrowing into her heart, sharp-toothed and barb-clawed, and she shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself, though the baby had left the warm safety of her womb beneath. Exposed now to the world, unprotected, anything could happen to her beautiful baby girl, _anything_. Her breath hitched and she looked wide-eyed at the window; at the cold, merciless night beyond.

But – the lights.

Warmth, life: shining color, dancing like fire across the expanse of this long December night.

"Please." She was not a person of great faith, though she had been dutiful and pious, as expected, in services, but now she found herself speaking to the hope of something greater, to something larger and more powerful than herself. She spoke to the lights. "_Please_. Keep her safe, and strong, and secure. She's... she's so small and helpless and _good_, she's so good. And... and all I want, all I ever want, is for her to be safe. And I can't do it alone, I know I can't, I don't know _how_, but I, I swear, if... if you'll help me, I'll... I'll do my best. I'll do anything I can for her, just... just keep her safe. Please. _Please..._" Her voice was shaking, and she clasped her hands together like a child at prayer, holding them beneath her chin. She stared up at the ribbons of color. She whispered, "Amen."

How long, then, did she stand there, still and silent? How long did she watch the rainbow at the window? It might have been seconds, or minutes, or hours – time, like so much else, had changed. All she knew, after, was what drew her away.

The baby made a noise, not quite a cry, and she turned to find ice-blue eyes open, one fist worked free from swaddling and tracing slow, looping shapes in the air.

She bent, though it hurt to bend, and slid careful hands beneath the warm bundle of her baby – support her head! - and lifted, cradled to her chest, whispered nonsense of comfort, though still, her tiny daughter did not cry. They went to the window, now, together.

"Look," she murmured. "Look at this beautiful night when you were born. Can you see the lights? Oh, and look! Look! It's starting to snow." She gazed fondly down, down at those blue eyes, round cheeks, brown hair that seemed frosted now with winter light. "Can you see it?" She smiled, hugged the baby tightly to her chest. "Elsa?"


End file.
